


And Elves Are Yet Singing

by Narya_Flame



Series: Nárë a Lindalë [25]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Autumn, B2MEM 2019, Friendship, Gen, Memories, Third Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 14:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17983262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: Maglor and Glorfindel sit by the fire in a cave outside Rivendell. They talk, tease and remember.





	And Elves Are Yet Singing

**Author's Note:**

> In my 'verse Glorfindel is Lalwen's son, hence Maglor referring to him as "cousin" and "kinsman." I think this stands alone, but effectively it's a missing scene from a longer fic I haven't posted yet, about what Maglor is up to in the Third Age.

“Will you go with them?”

Glorfindel lifted his head. Light from the flames shone in his hair, bright against the dark of autumn that shifted and breathed at the mouth of the cave. “No.” He gave a humourless smile. “Elrond does not deem it wise. He intends to send one of the emissaries from Mirkwood – Thranduil's son, Legolas.”

“His youngest?” Maglor arched an eyebrow. “And to whom will Elrond assign the task of telling Thranduil?”

“I do not think he will, or at least, not until they are on their way.”

“By which point, Thranduil's objections would be meaningless.” Maglor took a deep drink of wine. Almost unwillingly, his mouth curled. “Cunning. I would not have thought it of Elrond.”

“I cannot imagine where he learned it.”

Maglor shot his cousin a sharp look and passed him the wineskin. Outside the wind hissed, snatching smoke and sparks from their stone haven. The fire's seeking teeth found a pocket of sap in a log, and the blaze popped and sqeaked, the scent of singed verdure drifting up from the flames. “And the Hobbit, Frodo Baggins? How does he fare?”

“He grows stronger.” Glorfindel's face softened. “Such tenacity...I would not have believed it.”

“Oh, I would.” Maglor thought of the quiet times he had spent in the Shire, the gentle rhythm of the days there, the steady strength in that green earth – and of Frodo's uncle, Bilbo, staunch in the face of the bloodbath by the Lonely Mountain. “There is more to Hobbits than meets the eye.”

This time Glorfindel's smile was genuine. “So Mithrandir says.”

“Does he?” Maglor slanted a curious glance across the flames. “I assume you know the truth of him.”

“What do you take me for? I returned on the same ship as Alatar and Pallando; of course I know what he is. At least,” he amended, “insofar as any of us can.”

Maglor nodded in acknowledgement. Another gust of wind pulled the red flames low.

“Will _you_ go with them?” Glorfindel asked suddenly, rain-grey eyes curious.

“No.” Maglor snorted. “Fëanor's last surviving son, walking into Mordor? We might as well ask Sauron to the Valley for tea and have done with it.”

Glorfindel chuckled, drank, and handed back the wineskin.

“I might make an effective distraction,” Maglor allowed. “But no; I believe Elrond is right. The best hope of the Quest lies in secrecy.”

The night air stirred, tasting of frozen stone and damp bark. “Then where will you go?”

“Here. There.” A careless shrug. “What does it matter?”

“Makalaurë.” There was a hint of reproach in the mellow voice, and Maglor hid a smile as he remembered Laurëfindë in Valinor, gently keeping a gaggle of young cousins and siblings in order at family gatherings, chiding and distracting by turns. “You cannot walk away from this; the power in your voice alone -”

“Would attract attention of the wrong kind, and would not even find favour among all on our side.” He turned his head away. “There are others in Imladris besides Elrond who remember Sirion – and Doriath. They have not forgiven me and nor would I ask it of them.” Hot red liquid smeared on armour; the screams as they ran from the fey terrors the Oath had unleashed... “They have little reason to love those of my blood.”

Glorfindel exhaled. “I am sorry.”

“You?” Maglor blinked away his memories and looked back, astonished by the grief and tenderness in his cousin's eyes. “ _Ai_ , my dear, do not concern yourself with me; you have nothing to be sorry for, nothing at all.”

Glorfindel's gaze returned to the fire, a thoughtful line across his brow.

“Besides,” Maglor added, a little mischief curling through his voice, “I could not spend more than a few nights in Imladris without being driven out of my senses by that ridiculous song.”

His kinsman raised his eyes, and a slow, wicked smile spread across the serene features. “ _Tra-la-la-lally, here down in the valley..._ ”

Maglor glared. “That was not an invitation and well you know it.”

_“To fly would be folly,_  
_To stay would be jolly._  
_Tra-lil-lil-lil-lolly - ”_

“For the love of Eru, close your mouth or I will do it for you!”

Glorfindel laughed, and for a moment a keen edge of fresh earth and life seemed to burst through the scent of the fading year. “Now _there_ is the Makalaurë I remember, snarling at us all for distracting him from some precious composition, or for teasing him over a romantic conquest gone awry.” He pressed his lips together, his face the picture of solemnity, and began to hum the infectious melody instead – and then ducked and laughed as his cousin flung kindling at him. “I closed my mouth,” he pointed out unnecessarily.

Maglor growled, and gave him an affectionate shove.

“Stop, stop; I yield.” Glorfindel raised his hands, grinning. “Anyway, I hope you know that there are rumours _you_ wrote that song.”

“Rumours you started, I have no doubt.”

A shake of the beautiful head. “As a matter of fact I believe it was Gildor. I think he and Elrond hope that one day you'll find the sound of it so offensive that you will come striding down into Imladris and scold them all into silence.”

Guilt twisted in Maglor's stomach, cold and sickness together. More than once he had seen the Wandering Companies on the road near the Woody End and melted into the shadows, unwilling to be found. “ _You_ will be scolded if you are not back before the weather turns.” There was ice on the breath of the wind, and snow not far behind.

Glorfindel grimaced. “You're right, of course.” He stood, clipped the wineskin to his belt, and hesitated for a moment before pulling Maglor into his arms.

“Cousin...” Maglor stroked the tumbling waves of yellow hair, soft and wild like living silk, and pressed his brow against his kinsman's. He breathed in, locking the scent of celandine and clear river-water away in his memory, another treasure to be taken out and smiled over when his road through the wilderness grew dark.

“I will see you soon.” Glorfindel gripped his shoulders and shook him slightly.

“Yes,” Maglor lied.

It was with aching regret that he watched his cousin ride away. For a long time he stood at the mouth of the cave, listening to Asfaloth's bells chime through the frost-rimmed night. Tomorrow he would move on; he was well enough now, and his task would not keep forever. But it had been a pleasant interlude. He hoped he would meet with Glorfindel again, before his cousin sailed.

Distant on the wind, he heard his kinsman's voice, a thread of gold through November's soft, deep greys.

_“Though sword shall be rusted,_  
_And throne and crown perish_  
_With strength that Men trusted,_  
_And wealth that they cherish,_  
_Oh, tra-la-la-lally_  
_Here down in the valley, ha! Ha!”_

Maglor smiled and raised his hand in farewell.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my fellow Faerie Slashy Advent writers (Ziggy, Gabriel, NelyafinweFeanorion, Naledi and Cheekybeak) for letting me use some shared headcanons about the Tra-la-lally song.


End file.
